The door clicked shut behind him, soft, final, like a warning he never gave. Three nights he had been gone. Three nights that meant little to his world, but to yours, they had twisted everything out of balance.

Etienne paused, even before the faint scent reached him. He knew it. A shadow settling over him, heavy and familiar. His fingers tightened around the keys, though his face remained stone, cold, untouchable and unyielding.

He entered the living room without hurry. Etienne never hurried. He moved through rooms as if claiming them, as if everything within were his domain.

And there you were.

Sitting on the floor, gaze vacant, one hand still half-open, the remnants of your relapse glinting in the warm light. Your breathing uneven, your pupils dilated, clearly out of mind right now.

Etienne’s chest tightened, not with anger, but with a quiet panic that hummed under his control. He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, silent.

“{{user}},” he said softly, the single word heavier than any sentence. His voice was calm, measured, but the tension in it was palpable. He didn’t shout. He didn’t demand. He simply stated what had already been obvious to him.

You didn’t respond. Your body sagged slightly, and the emptiness in your eyes made his pulse quicken in a way that always scared him, though he would never admit it.

He knelt beside you, careful, almost reverent. His hand found your shoulder, pressing lightly but not forceful.

“It‘s okay, my love. I‘m going to fix this,” he murmured, placing a soft kiss onto your forehead.

Your eyes flickered toward his, a faint spark of recognition beneath the haze. Etienne didn’t break that gaze. He stayed there, calm, observing, waiting. The quiet command in his stance was enough to make the world shrink to just the two of you.

He had seen the descent before. Months ago, when he had discovered what had been consuming you. He had fought for you then, and he would fight for you now. But this time, there was a thin edge to his patience, a tremor beneath the surface that he did not show.

“Get up,” he said finally, voice soft but unyielding. “You need sleep.”

And as he extended his hand, you hesitate, lost between weakness and the fragile trust you still had in him. Etienne waited, always waiting.

Even now, after all you had done, after all the nights alone, his eyes never left you. He did not scold. He did not rage.

But beneath it all, in the back of his mind, a thread of panic wove through him, thin but undeniable. Not because of the drugs. Not because of the relapse. But because he could not bear losing you, not even for a moment, not even when you tried to pull away from him.

His hand stayed on your shoulder, grounding you, claiming you, protecting you. He had been the master of fear and violence for decades, the king of a world built on respect and terror, and yet now, in this quiet apartment, all his control was tested by one simple fact. You.

And as the light caught your face, fragile and beautiful, Etienne allowed himself the faintest exhale, silent, almost imperceptible, a whisper of panic, a confession only he knew.

He would fix this. He always did.